The Path to the Sword
by Kat36
Summary: (Completed) An "origin" story for Seijuro Hiko
1. Chapter 1 Beginning

This is an "origin" story for Hiko which will be done in three parts, starting here when he's 5 and concluding when he's in his 20s. It came about over the course of a few days when I was trying to explain to myself what forces in his young life could have forged a man like Hiko, who's so brilliant and compassionate, yet at the same time almost pathological about avoiding any display of his emotions. Especially his softer emotions. This origin for him came into my head practically complete. Like the Hikaru stories, I feel as if I'm just writing out a history, not creating something.

Warning: This is a dark story with a lot of violence. The violence is not real explicit or gory, but this is not a fun read.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The day started out like any other day. His mother sent him to wake Chieko, and Chieko got angry at being awakened and hit him, but not very hard. Over their rice and weak tea, his father detailed the work for the day. Chieko would be raking the paddy, and he was to go along with her to help in whatever way he could. This was both good and bad news. Bad, because Chieko would most likely tell him to do something, but not explain how, then hit him if he didn't guess it right. Good, because last year when the raking was done, he'd been kept at home with his mother and helped clean house, and he'd been on his knees scrubbing the entire morning. With Chieko, at least he was ignored most of the time and left alone with his imagination.

In his imagination, he was not five years old, and not the son of a farmer. He was fourteen and tall and strong (why not? he was already tall for his age, everyone said so), and he was a samurai. He translated the descriptive name of Niitsu (given to the family by the villagers because his father had come from that far away place) into a family name, his samurai name. Carrying a piece of bamboo to represent a sword, he would wait until Chieko wasn't looking, then leap and thrust, fighting battles in his mind, earning fame in ways that were vague but always exciting and dangerous. Nobody knew about this. He might only be five, but he could keep secrets, especially when telling them would earn laughter from his sister, pity from his mother, and contempt from his father. Hideaki was a scrupulously fair man – unlike his wife, he never took the part of one child over the other – but he was also a hard and practical man. He would say that Kakunoshin was dreaming, and what use were dreams? Then he'd send him out to weed the vegetables or wash clothes.

On this day, Kakunoshin earned Chieko's approval by using the bamboo stick to kill beetles that scuttled out from under her raking. It was a test of his skill, and fun as well. In his mind, each beetle was an enemy that he vanquished, and Chieko hated them so much, she left him alone to do it and even smiled at him once.

They stopped briefly only for Chieko to share rice cakes and water with him at midday, then went back to work. Their mother came out shortly after, bringing a hat for Chieko and scolding her for not already having one on. She was very concerned with Chieko's skin, but while Kakunoshin had heard both women described as being beautiful, they were his mother and sister, no more, no less, and the idea of being worried about whether Chieko's skin turned brown seemed a bit silly to him.

When the sun had sunk toward the horizon and Chieko could no longer see well enough to do her job properly, she dragged him by his collar out of the irrigation ditch, where he'd been pretending to fight a river battle, and yelled at him for getting wet. "Mother will blame me and I'll get in trouble because you're stupid," she said, cuffing him.

A typical day, up to that point. Their mother did get angry with Chieko ("You're supposed to be watching him! What if he'd drowned? We need a boy here!"), but Hideaki, coming in for his evening meal, told her to leave Chieko alone. "He's too active. She can't watch him and work, both. Besides, there's no harm in a little wetting, not for him. He's the healthiest thing on this place. I'm going outside to wash up. Just change his clothes, Kumi."

He went through the door, and that was the last time Kakunoshin ever saw his father.

His mother was helping him into dry clothes when they heard the men's voices outside, talking to his father. They were hard, tough voices, and their laughter was cruel. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could tell they worried his mother, because she stopped fussing over him and sat with her head turned toward the front of the house, listening. The men laughed again, and his mother suddenly said, "Chieko. Take Kakunoshin and hide. Hide somewhere you can't be found, and don't come out again until I call you. Do what I say!" she snapped when Chieko just gaped at her. Then she rose and headed for the door.

Chieko abruptly panicked. Kakunoshin was still trying to get into his sleeves when she grabbed him up and ran with him, and when he protested, she clamped a hand over his mouth so hard that he could barely breathe. She ran for the back door, but stopped with a jerk when she saw a stranger in the yard, a big man who was casually pulling their vegetables from the ground and stuffing them into a sack. Chieko doubled back into their parents' room and looked frantically around. At the same time, he heard his father give a loud, wordless shout. Chieko opened the wooden crate which held their father's clothes, stuffed Kakunoshin into it, and shut the lid. While he was still trying to untangle himself from his sleeves, he heard her climb on top of the box and knew what she was doing. She was climbing into the rafters under the roof. He'd seen her do it before in her own room, to hide things. Now he supposed she was going to hide herself.

He heard his mother scream, a sound of both fear and rage, cut off abruptly. After that, he heard the strange men all around the house, talking, laughing. Then they were _in_ the house, their feet heavy on the floors, nothing like his father's light step. He heard when they found Chieko and heard her screaming as they dragged her outside. She screamed for a long time, and putting his fingers in his ears didn't blunt the sound. Then it stopped, very suddenly, as his mother's scream had stopped. He crouched there in the darkness, smelling his father in the clothes underneath him, shivering with fear and anger, debating whether to stay hidden or come out and fight the men.

Then the decision was made for him. The lid flew open, and an unkept, dirty man with a round face looked in at him. "Hey! Look at this! There's another one!"

"Another girl?" asked a second man in the room, one with an oily, snakelike voice.

"No, this one's a boy. Just a kid."

"Well, we don't need him, then."

"Right." The lid came down again, and this time he heard the pin drop into place, locking the crate.

A third man spoke, this one with a gravelly voice, as if his throat hurt. "Find anything?"

"No, sir," said the dirty man respectfully.

"What's in the crate?"

"Just some clothes and a kid."

"A kid?"

"Yeah. He's locked in. I figured we'd just leave him there."

The snakelike man sniggered. "You really are bad, you know that? You're just going to leave that kid in there to burn alive?"

"Sure, why not?"

_Burn?_ He didn't want to burn alive. With a sudden surge of energy, he began trying to break out of the crate, screaming curses at them.

"Damn. Good set of lungs on him," the snakelike one said.

The gravelly-voiced one said, "Just get the torches and lets get going."

Kakunoshin screeched even louder and attacked the box with more determination.

"How old is he, anyway?" the gravelly one asked.

"Not old enough to be any use to us," the dirty one said. "Six or seven, maybe."

"Open it up and let me see him."

The lid came up and rough hands dragged him out into the light. He was facing a man about as old as his father, wearing partial armor and a katana, with long dark hair and flat, expressionless black eyes. "How old are you, kid?"

"Five."

"He's lying," said the dirty man, who was holding him.

Kakunoshin bit his hand, hard, then made a break for it. He was stopped by the katana, which came singing from the scabbard and sliced down in front of him, so closely that he felt the breeze of its passing on his face. He froze. "Wise choice," said the swordsman. "I could have cut you in half, you know. So, answer me truthfully. How old are you?"

"Five!"

The katana swung slowly up to tap him under the chin, forcing him to lift his face and look into the swordsman's face. The swordsman said to the other two, "What do you think? He looks like a pretty kid to me."

"Yeah, sure," said Snakeman, who was skinny enough to suit his voice, "but what use do we have for a pretty kid? Put him back in the box."

"_We_ have no use for a pretty kid, but I'm thinking about Akahana."

"What about her?"

"She wants to be a mother. And she just lost that baby she was going to have, so she's moping. Getting a kid might cheer her up."

Both of the other men laughed. "She won't want _this_ little viper," said Dirtyman, who was still nursing his bitten hand.

Snakeman said, "Come on, Boss. Kids aren't like zori, when you lose one, you just get another."

The swordsman shrugged. "It's worth a try. He's young, and he's cute. If he doesn't cheer her up, we can always sell him."

"He'll tell everyone what happened here."

"We'll cut his tongue out first. You have any other problems with my decision?"

"No, Boss."

The swordsman looked down at Kakunoshin. "I'm going to walk out of here now, and you walk at my heels. If you stay at my heels, you are safe. If you stray, my men will kill you. Understand?"

He understood. He'd never seen anything die except fish and insects, but he still understood. He knew, now, that his parents and sister were killed. Otherwise this man wouldn't think he could just take him away like this. He was so terrified, he wasn't sure he could walk. But somehow he managed to stiffen his legs and trot behind the man.

They passed out of the house through the front, and passed his family. His mother and father were so covered with blood that he only knew them from their clothing, and his sister looked like a pile of rags, not human at all. He didn't have any thoughts of anger or vengeance. He was too devastated. His whole world had just been crushed like a bird's egg.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Akahana was beautiful, and Kakunoshin, bathed and presented to her, tried his best to give her a properly respectful bow and make her like him as he'd been commanded. But she didn't take to him. In fact, she barely even looked at him. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at the swordsman, whose name, Kakunoshin had learned, was Juro. Nor were her words promising. "You must be mad," she said, enunciating every word.

"You wanted a kid," he protested.

"I wanted _our_ child! You idiot! You stupid savage! You have no heart! Do you think you can just go buy a child like a piece of jewelry, and mend my sorrow that way?"

"What's the matter with him? He's cute. And he's got courage."

She made a noise that was somewhere between a crow's call and the screech of a scalded cat. "I don't _care_ if he's cute! Ah! You beast, you monster, you cloth puppet walking around like a man! You don't care about me. You think only of yourself. _Make her happy,_ you think. _Give her a gem, give her a boy. Then she'll be sweet again._ I'll never be sweet to you again! I hate you! Go _away!"_ She punctuated this last sentence by throwing a dish at them. Juro moved slightly, and it missed him and shattered on the wall behind them. "You're a brute! An unthinking brute!" Another dish flew at them and was also dodged. Now the crazy woman had a dish in each hand. "You have no sense, no sensitivity, no soul!" The dishes came flying. Juro calmly dodged them, and Kakunoshin did his best to just stand there and look equally impassive. Akahana grabbed some bowls and threw those, too. "You don't care about me! You only care about one thing. It doesn't matter to you that my woman's heart is broken. You wouldn't even _notice_ if I cried myself to _death!"_ A vase and a cup came sailing their way. The floor behind him was almost covered with broken pottery. "You'd just get some other woman and give _her_ a baby!"

"If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't have brought you this kid."

There came that screech again. "Idiot! Moron! Buffoon! If your katana broke, would you love me for bringing you an axe? And somebody _else's_ axe, at that!"

"So you don't want this kid?"

_"NO!"_

"All right. We're going to cut out his tongue and sell him, then."

Kakunoshin gave her a desperate look.

"I don't give a shit," she snarled, not even glancing at him.

"All right," he said, and turned away, grabbing Kakunoshin by his collar as he turned.

"Wait!" Akahana shrieked.

Kakunoshin wished fervently for two things, one that she had changed her mind, and the second that she would stop shouting like that.

Juro looked back over his shoulder. "What?"

"Are you really going to do that? Cut out his tongue and sell him?"

"What else am I supposed to do with him?"

"I don't know! You brought him here! But you can't do _that!"_

He sighed. "All right, whatever you want. I'll just kill him."

She burst into a startling bout of hysterical tears. "You _are_ heartless! Now this boy's death will be on my head!"

"Don't be silly. He would be dead now anyway, if I hadn't thought you'd like him."

"Juro, if you kill that boy, or cut out his tongue, or anything else like that, I'll never let you in my door again."

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with him, then?" Juro demanded. It was the first time Kakunoshin had ever heard emotion in his voice, and it was sheer exasperation.

"I don't know! You started this! But don't you dare hurt him."

"All right, I won't."

"Or let those idiot followers of yours hurt him."

"What do you care?" he said, exasperated again.

"I have a conscience! Oh, go _away!_ Now I have a headache. I feel sick. I'm not recovered yet, and here you are, persecuting me. _Go away!"_

To Kakunoshin's relief, this time they did leave. On the other side of the door, he looked up at Juro, puzzled.

"Wonder why I put up with her?" he said.

Kakunoshin nodded.

"I'll explain it when you're a little older. How old are you, anyway?"

He sighed. How many times did he have to say it? "Five."

"We've never had anyone in the group younger than six. When will you be six?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know when your birthday is?"

"No."

"Didn't your mother ever give you a gift on your birthday?"

"Last year, she did."

"When was it, then?"

"I don't know."

"If I thought you were messing with me…"

"I'm not!"

"What time of year was it?"

That, at least, he could answer. "Almost winter."

"Before the snow, or after?"

"Just before."

"All right, this is the deal. I'm not going to kill you unless you try to run away. But you can't be a member of my group until you prove yourself. You can stay with us. In fact, if you try to leave, I'll send some of my guys after you, and when they find you, they'll do a lot worse things to you than burning you alive, and then they'll kill you. Got that? If you stay with us, you'll be safe. But that's all I'm promising. I'm not feeding you, I'm not clothing you. Everything you get, you'll have to steal or beg. If you make it through the winter without dying, then with the first thaw, you'll be a member of the group and get everything the guys get."

"Will I get a sword?"

"You'll get a knife."

"I want a sword."

Juro stared at him a moment. "When you're big enough, maybe I will give you one."

"What's big enough?"

"Up to here on me," Juro said, indicating somewhere around his collarbone. "But I wouldn't worry about that until you get through the winter."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

By the time the first thaw arrived, Kakunoshin had not only survived, but he had grown taller and stronger.

At first he thought he would die. He wasn't any good at stealing or lying, and he lived on scraps from the bandits' table, growing ever thinner and weaker. The first person he stole from was Shun, the round-faced dirty man who liked to burn things. He didn't like Shun, which made it possible not only to steal from him, but to lie about it as well. That success, and the first full meal he'd had in over a month, made him diligently apply his mind to the task of successful theft. He moved from stealing from the other bandits to stealing from almost anyone, and by the autumn, he was so good at it that he could walk right into a house and take food from the table without ever being suspected.

Simple survival dominated his thoughts throughout the three seasons. Juro's protection extended over him, but some of the bandits, especially Shun, watched for any opportunity to hurt him anyway, so he spent much of his time dogging Juro's footsteps. He'd always been good at hiding his feelings, but among these men, he had more to hide, and he emulated Juro's expressionless, inscrutable attitude until the men stopped picking on him and started laughing at him and calling him Little Juro – although not when Juro was actually around. Another thing Kakunoshin quickly learned was that Juro was respected because he was so merciless. He himself had gotten all the mercy he was going to get from the bandit leader, and had he not learned to survive among them, Juro would have let him starve to death without blinking. He dealt out justice among his men according to his own lights, and that justice was swift and final. And he had even less mercy on the innocent people they robbed, usually travelers or families in remote farms such as his own. By the time the thaw came and Kakunoshin was inducted into the bandit group, he'd seen so many people die that, in instinctive self-defense of his sanity, he convinced himself that it didn't matter, that all lives were short and ended painfully, and that his own life was the most important one.

He asked Juro once why they robbed and killed other people. He did this in the winter, when the snow kept them dormant for a while and Juro was bored, and he picked a time when Juro had just come back from seeing Akahana, the only time that the Boss could be said to be in a good mood. By the age of six, he'd already learned to read others well, even men as close as Juro. On this occasion, knowing he had a question Juro would consider impertinent, he also brought sake, and when Juro shared it with him, he knew it would be a good time to ask.

Juro gave him that flat black stare, then said, "We rob because we need food, and sake, and money for other things. We kill so there are no witnesses to tell the authorities who we are, which way we went, and what our number is. But I don't think that's what you're really asking, is it?"

He shook his head. A minimum of words was also a good thing with Juro.

"You've been out in the world a little, Kakunoshin. And you've got eyes in your head. Ever seen what happens to a moth that can't fly and falls upon the ground? Ants come and eat it alive. A rat that's stupid enough to come out into the open, a dog gets it. Everything kills something weaker than they are, in order to live. Farmers and merchants, they are weak, and the best they can do is kill fish. We, however, are strong. We kill men. I can kill almost any single man, because I am stronger. As a group, we can kill anyone we choose except those daimyo who travel with armies at their backs. Why do we kill? We do it because we _can._ Is that clear?"

It was.

While he was still waiting out the winter, he got a first-hand experience with the idea of the domination of the strong. One of the men brought in another boy, his nephew. Takuji was seven, but thinner and not much taller than Kakunoshin. He was also mean. The men picked on him, as they had on Kakunoshin until they tired of it, and Takuji in turn transferred his anger onto Kakunoshin. Then a third boy joined them, Yakumo, even older, and while he didn't abuse Kakunoshin for no reason, he joined forces with Takuji against the younger boy. Kakunoshin learned to avoid them whenever possible. But when the spring thaw came and he was given a knife as promised, and Juro took a few days to teach him to use it, he was an excellent student. Every bit of knowledge Juro let drop, he hoarded. If Juro knew why, he didn't say, he simply went on impassively showing Kakunoshin how to efficiently kill and effectively defend himself with a knife.

When the lessons were done, Kakunoshin met Takuji and Yakumo together and beat them both. He didn't kill them, for he wasn't sure what Juro would say to that – he'd seen Juro slice off Shun's left hand once for killing another bandit before Juro could judge their argument himself – but he maimed both and put Takuji out of action for over a month.

He was very proud of himself. This life had been given to him through no choice of his own, but if he had to live it, he would not be one of the weak.


	2. Chapter 2 Found

A few answers for my reviewers:

1-When is Hiko #12 coming? He's here. I hope you enjoy my version of him.   
2- Re: the name Kakunoshin Niitsu or vice versa ~ darn it!! I've seen it both ways, but in the manga translation I've read, it's Niitsu that's the family name. And since Niitsu is also, conveniently, a place, I'm going to leave it like it is. At least for now. Also because I'm lazy.   
3- The resemblance to Soujiro/Shishio was not planned, but I have to admit, when I wrote Juro's words, I thought, "This guy sounds like Shishio, Kat, you baka." But Juro insisted on saying it anyway. Maybe all predators talk that way?

And thank you all. Your words and your interest keep me going.

This is the second of three stories I plan for Hiko's "growing up". The last one will take place after he becomes a Master, but while he is still very young. I consider all three of these "pivotal" points in the development of the man ~ as I see him, anyway.

Oh, yeah, disclaimers. I don't own Hiko (just drool over him), or Hiko #12. Hiko #12 is totally out of my head, since they don't give us much of a glimpse of him in RuroKen, so any inaccuracies in his portrait here are my own. All other characters are my invention. This story is rated PG for some violence and some bad words.

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~

The old man smelled the smoke long before he saw the heat ripples in the air, and the scent borne on the wind made him turn aside from the road and cross between the fields toward the source. He knew those smells, the stench of burning wood and burning flesh. It could, perhaps, be a poor man's funeral pyre, but in these troubled times, he doubted it.

He picked his way easily along the rough, narrow path between the rice paddies, agile and straight for a man whose long hair was snow-white and whose face was a study in the wrinkles and lines carved by a long life of many experiences. Even more white than his hair was the voluminous cape he wore, with a red collar like pointed wings obscuring much of his face from the side. Under the cape, his figure was hard to determine, but he was evidently broad-shouldered, and at his side was a sheathed sword with a noticeably plain hilt. He walked with the long sure strides of a much younger man toward what he was sure would be danger – even hoped would be danger, because if the burning meant what he believed, he hoped the villains were still within his grasp.

His hopes were realized. As the path rejoined another, smaller road, he could hear the fire ahead, crackling viciously, but not more viciously than the laughter of the men who had set it. Once he turned the next corner, he saw his prey. An isolated farm house was burning, almost consumed now, the flames roaring through the roof. Under the collapsed and burning lintel was the body of an adult, too badly burned to recognize as man or woman. The bodies of two men and of a boy about 12 years old were scattered in the yard, one man looking as if he'd been cut down trying to flee, the boy and the other man still holding the farm implements, a pitchfork and a woodchopper's axe, with which they'd tried to defend their home. The bandits who had killed them were still there, playfully pushing back and forth between them the farm's only survivor, a young woman weeping in terror, trying blindly to clutch her torn kimono over her breasts.

The villains numbered nine, six men and three boys. The boys were all younger, even, than the dead child. Five of the grown men were playing with the girl while the sixth watched, their comments lewd and dangerous; two of the boys were watching them, laughing, while the third boy fastidiously cleaned his knife on the kimono of one of the slain farmers. The old man's mouth twitched in what almost became a sneer; then his face lost all trace of expression. He unfastened and tossed aside the white cloak, then stepped forward and waited, feet braced apart, to be noticed.

The fastidious boy noticed him first, but said nothing, simply leaned against the fence edging the fields and waited, looking bored. Then another boy saw the old man, and shouted, tugging at the kimono of one of the bandits. In less than a second, he was the cynosure of all living eyes there, save the girl, who had fallen to the ground and covered her head with her arms.

One man stepped forward, a big bandit, built like a granite block. "Ah, Munoto, why are you shouting, you baby? I thought an army was here, and it's just some old man."

The old man ignored him. The big bandit was not the leader of this group. The leader stood behind the others, the watcher, now the only one there with wary eyes, and he carried a katana. A wandering, masterless samurai, then. There were few things more dangerous in all of Japan. If this troubled the old man, however, his face did not show it, nor did his blank dark stare.

Another of the bandits stepped forward, a man with a face like a toad's. "What the fuck are _you_ doing here, old man?"

The old man's arms were folded before him, his sword still in its sheath, but he said with flat and unmistakable menace, "I am too late to accomplish my purpose, which was to save these people from murderers. However, I am not too late to avenge them."

This brought a wave of hilarity from the first five men and two of the boys. The third boy still looked bored, and the samurai's eyes had narrowed to slits. The five drew their swords, and the toadlike one said, "Is that so? All by yourself? And how do you plan to do that?"

"My plan won't matter to you," the old man said, and moved.

None of the five ever saw the sword drawn which killed them. The old man took a step forward, there was a flash of reflected sunlight, and the two men closest to him fell, blood spurting from their chests and bellies. He took another step and a half turn, and the man nearest him lost first his sword, with the arm still holding it, and then his head. At what seemed to be the exact same moment, the other two men fell in four pieces to the ground, their bodies cut neatly in half just at the waist.

Even as the boys nearest him realized what they'd seen and screamed, the singing of steel and a rush of air announced the furious ex-samurai's entrance into the fray. The old man found him a little tougher to kill. The man was a good fighter. It took him three attacks to finish the job.

He cleaned his sword on the kimono of his nearest victim. The two boys who had screamed were running away now, their bare feet kicking up puffs of dust in the road, one still screaming, the other saving his breath for more speed. The old man stared after them a moment, but decided to let them live, hoping they'd learned a lesson. Then he turned to the third boy, who was still leaning against the fence, still with that bored, faintly contemptuous expression on his thin face. The old man reached out, grabbed the boy's shirt, and lifted him from the ground as if he weighed no more than a leaf. "Aren't you afraid of me, little cur?"

The black eyes met his, fierce, direct, still contemptuous. "Of course I am. I'm not stupid."

"Then why are you still here, instead of running like your friends?"

"I want to understand how you did that."

"How I did what, brat?"

The boy gestured to the pieces of his former companions scattered about in the farm yard. "That. It happened so fast, I couldn't see how."

He dropped the boy, then slid the long, plain-hilted sword back into its sheath and turned away, walking toward the huddled shape of the young woman. "It takes a trained eye to see the movements of a Hiten Mitsurugi attack. You will never be able to do so."

"I will if I see it often enough," the boy's voice said firmly from directly behind him.

"And how do you propose to see it often enough?"

"I'll follow you wherever you go, and watch you."

"If you follow me two steps from this yard, I will kill you, as I killed your friends." He bent to touch the woman. She shuddered and drew back, an instinctive reaction. Then, through the matted tendrils of her hair, she saw his expression and reached out to him. He took her hand and drew her to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed so hard that her entire body shook. The old man told her, "You are unharmed, woman. And your family is avenged." After a few minutes her sobs lessened, and he lifted her to her feet. "Come with me to the village. Someone will care for you there." He glanced back at the boy, who was still staring at him, watchful and wary, but without any sign of real fear. Or of any remorse, either, even in the face of the girl's sorrow. The old man considered seriously whether to kill him or not; the boy read that in his face and suppressed a flinch, shifting his feet only once before becoming still again and lifting his chin, as if offering a target. The old man said, "Help me with her."

He didn't expect any help, but the boy stepped forward at once and took the woman's hand in both of his. "This way," he said, to the old man. "There's a temple. It's much closer than the village, and they will take care of her." He then led the woman, glancing back occasionally to be sure the old man was still with them, determined not to let him out of his sight.

The temple was less than two miles away, and the priests took the young woman into their care with sympathetic murmurs and tenderness. They told the old man the name of the group he had just wiped out, something to do with tigers, but it was lost in the vast number of such deeds he'd done in his life, and besides was a matter of little interest to him. Satisfied that the bereaved girl was in good hands, he left the temple compound and turned back in the direction from which he'd just come. The boy came right behind him. The old man whirled, so quickly the boy was startled into taking a step back. "I told you I'd kill you."

"You haven't yet. Are you going back? To bury them?"

"Yes."

"I'll help."

"Why do you want to do that?"

"You know why."

"Tell me anyway."

"I want to please you so that you will teach me to do what you just did."

"The principles of Hiten Mitsurugi are not for murderers and thieves."

"I'm not a murderer or a thief any more."

The old man's brows went up a fraction of an inch, and he stared at the boy for a long time. The boy's black eyes never dropped and never wavered. Finally the old man said, "What is your name?"

"Kakunoshin Niitsu."

"I am Seijuro Hiko, the twelfth of that name, Master of the Hiten Mitsurugi style. If you wish to learn it, you must give up a great deal more than murdering and thieving."

The boy nodded once, then said, "There is a shovel in that shed over there, but since you want me to give up thieving, we had better ask the priests for permission to use it."

"I think you should be silent unless I request that you speak," snapped the old man. "If you will go with me, your name is no longer Niitsu, it is _baka deshi_, and your mouth is the least worthy thing about you. So shut up." Then he turned back to the temple gates and asked the porter for the use of the shovel.


	3. Chapter 3 Choice

A slightly revised version to cover a bit of a plot hole...

This is the last story in my "origin" trilogy for Seijuro Hiko, the day that, in my own history of him, he reached a turning point and became a Master in every sense. I really hated writing this, because I don't like what happened to him, but it felt right, so... I wrote it. If it seems to ramble a bit, it's because I wanted to spend a little time with Hiko and see what he did when he was out "hunting", as Hikaru euphemistically puts it, so this is a lot of speculation on my part. It takes place about two years after Hiko became a Master.

I'm indebted to Shin Gouki for the main idea of this story. He emailed me after reading some of my Hikaru tales, we got to talking, and he popped up with this "What if...?" scenario that was irresistible to me. I just hope I did it justice.

The usual disclaimers: I don't own Seijuro Hiko. All other characters are my own invention. This story is rated PG for violence and a few bad words.

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~

Seijuro Hiko took long swift strides across the bridge over the castle moat, not stopping until he reached the opposite side. There, feet braced, he faced the forest and twitched his cape until it settled properly around him. His breath rose like clouds in the cold air, and the wind swirled the edges of the cape around his legs, but he welcomed the bite of the approaching winter. It cleansed him from the cloying atmosphere of the castle and the people in it.

A man's form separated itself from the trees and stood waiting for him, grinning widely. Kazuo was tall and stocky, nearly the size of Hiko himself, and wore a red banner around his shaven head, but somehow he could always fade into his surroundings and become almost invisible. The only reason Hiko wasn't startled by his sudden appearance was that he'd been expecting him to be nearby. As Hiko joined him, Kazuo said, "Did you have fun?"

"No."

"Why did the daimyo want to see you? Is he going to pay you?"

"That subject didn't come up."

"I hope he does. I can use my share." Kazuo was nearly twice Hiko's age, and his weatherbeaten face made him look even older, so the impish twinkle in his eyes was pleasantly at odds with his features. "Then what _did _he want?"

"He wanted to discourse, at length, on the proper and best way for me to go about my task."

Kazuo gave a shout of laughter. "Did you tell him to go to hell?"

"Not in so many words."

"The boy learns tact. Did you bow to him and show him the proper respect?"

"No. You know what I think of all that."

"I think I'm going to get a share of exactly nothing, is what I think." He scratched his chin. "I could have sworn I warned you what he was like."

"You did. And you didn't exaggerate. The man wears more scent than my woman does. And he seemed affronted by the very fact that I'm taller than he is. He kept trying to get me to sit down and drink tea. _Tea_," he added disgustedly.

"He's not going to waste his sake on a ronin. But you didn't sit?"

"I'm not a dog."

"So you stood there, and looked down that long nose of yours, and made him feel small. And you still got out alive."

"He only had nine men there, so I was never in any danger. What are you laughing about now?"

"Nothing. But from anyone else, I'd call that bragging."

"I don't need to brag. Acknowledging one's accomplishments is only common sense, but boasting about them is the sign of a man who fears he's fallen short somehow."

"Is that you or your Master talking, there?"

Hiko's mouth curved. "My Master."

"So did the daimyo have any good advice at all?"

"Only if my purpose is to fail and look ridiculous doing it."

Kazuo broke into his ready laughter. "Then I assume you'll continue to depend on your friends here in the province."

"Very much. As usual. And you know you won't suffer for it."

"Ha. You never have any money."

"Kazuo, do I look as if I've lost my wits since the last time you saw me? You and your people know where these bandits are hiding. How else can you promise to tell me where I can find them? Once I've killed them, you'll be free to move in and loot their lair."

"Any identifiable treasures that we find, we will naturally return to the rightful owners," Kazuo said piously.

Hiko gave an inelegant snort. Kazuo looked wounded. Hiko just shook his head. Kazuo and his kind were like jackals, swooping in to feast when the lion has left its kill. But they were useful men, and honest within their own ethical boundaries. Unlike the bandits he was stalking, they harmed no one and took no life, and while any actual treasures they found would quietly disappear, food and animals and other such homely items would make their way back into the community from which they'd been stolen. "Another thing the daimyo wanted," he said casually, "is the chest that was stolen from him a few days ago. He's asked me to deliver it to him, and hinted at a reward."

"What's in it?"

"Kimonos, some other works of art."

"If I see it..."

Which meant, Hiko knew, that he would take care _not_ to see it, but to let one of his friends find it.

"... then naturally I'll give it to you to return to the daimyo."

"If I'm still in the province."

"Always assuming that," Kazuo agreed solemnly. But his eyes were twinkling again. He knew that Hiko, once he'd done what he'd come for, would walk away at once. The chances of him being in the province when the chest was discovered were as slim as finding sake instead of water in a well.

Hiko was aware of Kazuo's thoughts, but he didn't care. The daimyo had lost five men when the chest had been taken, but his concern was for his treasures, not his soldiers, and Hiko had no patience with an attitude like that. His only regret was that he wouldn't be able to see one of the stolen kimonos on Kazuo's girlfriend.

Kazuo had a house not far from there, high on the slopes, an isolated little cottage which was snug and dry on the inside but, on the outside, looked as if it were dilapidated to the point of falling down. A perfect house for a spy and thief, Hiko always thought, and the girlfriend, who was about half Kazuo's age and size, kept the inside ruthlessly clean and harmonious, as if trying to compensate for the outer shell. She served them food and sake on the rickety porch and then effaced herself, and the two men sat there in a companionable silence, waiting for word from one of Kazuo's friends.

Word came before they'd finished the first jug of sake. Hiko, with his younger eyes, saw it first, an arrow arcing briefly over the trees, a mile or more away. Kazuo stiffened beside him and asked him, "Did you see where it landed?"

"Of course."

"Go, then. Keep an eye open – they'll signal changes of direction for you if they safely can. I'll catch up with you. You need speed, and I can't keep up with those long legs of yours."

Hiko headed north, running as fast as he could in the forest, faster than was really safe. But he and Kazuo had agreed that, if they were going to catch the bandits, the chosen victims couldn't be warned. They had to be unwitting bait, sacrifices to stop the bandits' rampaging and save future innocents. Kazuo's people couldn't even step in to help when the bandits actually attacked, since they were not fighters, but only thieves and spies, and most of them mere children. Whoever they were, these victims would be the bandits' last, but Hiko was not going to allow a single innocent life to be taken because he'd been a step too slow. With his cloak wrapped over one arm serving as a shield for his face, he charged for where he'd seen the arrow fall. Once, another arrow flew, this time pointing him more westward, higher into the hills, and he turned and followed it with no lessening of his speed.

As he scrambled down a slope, he abruptly saw the situation below him, practically at his feet. The bandits had cornered a small merchant caravan where a turn in the road wedged them with their backs against a cliff side, trapped. The merchants had formed the wagons into a tight, protective half-circle, a move Hiko found surprisingly intelligent until he saw the face of one of Kazuo's people, a young woman, among the merchants and servants huddled together. So the spies had decided to help if they could. That was better than the daimyo had done. He had promised his soldiers to escort all such trade caravans, but apparently he'd gone back on his word.

From what Hiko could see in the scant seconds it took him to get to the edge of the cliff, the merchant party had suffered some wounded, but it looked as if only one man had died, so far back along the road from the fray that the arrows which had pierced him were probably the first warning the caravan had gotten. Now, the bandits were standing back, twelve of them, sheltered by the large rocks which lined this treacherous curve in the mountain road, and were casually using bows to pick off whatever body part showed itself between the wagons. The situation made Hiko smile. The bandits had trapped the caravan, but they had also trapped themselves. None would be able to get past him once he got behind them.

The large rocks that the bandits were using for cover protected wagons from accidentally falling down the steep slope beyond. The ledge the bandits stood on behind them was narrow. They wouldn't escape him, but there was no margin for error on his part. If he landed wrong, he'd go over the edge and probably break most of the bones in his body. But it never occurred to him that he might fail. He simply picked his spot and leaped high into the air.

He came down behind them, turning as his feet touched the ground, and three of the bandits were dead before they even knew he was there. The others turned, yelling, to face him. Two, their bows loaded, shot arrows at him, one of which he fended off with his sword, the other of which he caught and, grinning, snapped in two between his fingers. He felt good, his blood singing, his spirit high. This was what he'd been created and trained to do, and he did it better than anyone. He already knew everything he needed to know about his opponents by their reactions. The only unknown was the man who was apparently the leader, standing back to allow the others to approach Hiko. The others, however, Hiko could read at a glance. Slow men, accustomed to others freezing with fear from their mere viciousness. Now he would show them what a fight truly was.

The two with bows immediately notched more arrows, while the other six backed into the road, drawing their own swords. None were long enough to get close to him, except that of the leader, and that man was still standing back, in the shadows, giving curt orders but not stepping forward himself. Hiko hoped for a duel with him when the slaughter was done. But first, he had work.

Less than he thought, however. As one of the bowmen stepped out of cover to take aim at him, an arrow from the caravan struck him neatly in the throat. Hiko glanced over and grinned at the archer, Kazuo's young woman. The other bandit let fly with his arrow, but he was so disconcerted with what had happened to his companion that he didn't leave cover, and the arrow flew wide. The girl shouted, "I'll watch him, Master Hiko!" and Hiko, his back covered, turned his attention to the six swordsmen.

"Fan out and surround him, you idiots!" the leader growled.

They obeyed, but they were still frozen, unable to get close enough to strike him without getting within his reach. Two behind him signaled those in front to distract him so they could move in. Hiko didn't see them – no matter what anyone thought, Hiten Mitsurugi masters didn't have eyes in the backs of their heads – but he felt their movement, felt the shift of their energy, and saw the response in the eyes of those in front of him. He took a step forward, putting himself out of his prepared stance, as if going to meet them. The two behind him charged, and he spun, decapitating one and slicing through the shoulder of the other, down through the collarbone. Before his strike could be slowed by more bone, he whipped the sword up and brought it behind him, stopping the blade aimed at his back, turning with the same movement. Extending his arm, he drove the other man's sword up, and then, with the man totally exposed, brought his own sword in an arc which cut his opponent in half at the waist.

From the corner of his eye he caught the movement of the second archer, and took a half-step backward. The arrow whizzed past his face, and at the same time, Kazuo's girl fired again, her arrow passing behind him. The bandit fell, and Kazuo's girl let out a silly crow of triumph. Hiko took his stance again. Only three left, not counting the leader, and the only sweat on him was from his run. He grinned.

Then the leader said something odd. "_Fuck!_ Not again!"

But Hiko didn't have time to worry about that. The next words out of the leader's mouth were, "Get him, you idiots, before he kills you all!" There was something familiar about the deep, raw voice, but that was something else Hiko ignored, because the words galvanized the three others to come after him together. He killed one and parried the other two with his first movement, using so much force that the third man was pulled toward him. He downed that man with a fist, then thrust into his back as he fell, skewering the heart. The last bandit backed away, panicked now, glancing behind him and realizing that, unless he could scale a sheer rock protected by a bunch of people who were ready to tear him apart, he was going to have to face Hiko. He dropped his sword and held up his hands in surrender. "Fine," Hiko said, and thrust.

His blade met another as it entered the man's breast. The leader, striking from behind, was paying his man back for cowardice. Their swords hummed as they both pulled out of the dead man, and Hiko, grinning, took his first good look at his only worthy opponent.

The tip of his sword wavered and dropped. No wonder the voice had sounded familiar. He knew the man. The hair was heavily greyed, the face more creased with age, but the flat dark eyes were the same. Hiko would have known him anywhere. But he was looking at a man he'd thought dead. _"Juro?"_

There was no recognition from the other man. Which wasn't too surprising, since he hadn't seen Hiko since Hiko was eight years old. Hiko had recently turned twenty, and had changed a lot in that time. "That's my name," Juro grunted, "but if this is some kind of formal challenge..." He spit on the ground, inches from Hiko's boot. "I don't give a shit what your name is."

"Juro. You can't beat me. Surrender. I'll let you live."

"Fuck you. You never know, I might get lucky. But tell me, is there an army of you guys out there, or did you steal that cape from the old man?"

"There's only one of these."

"Did you kill the old guy for it?"

"Yes."

"You're not as good as he was."

"I will be. I was his apprentice."

"Why do you keep staring at me like that?" Juro demanded.

Hiko couldn't begin to explain. The last time he'd seen Juro, the man had been bleeding heavily, on the ground, apparently dead. But before that day, Juro had seemed like a god to him, tall, strong and ruthless, a man he'd looked up to both physically and emotionally. Now Juro was just an old ronin, a head shorter than him, far too stiff and slow to beat him, despite his defiant words. "Why don't you ask my name?" he said.

"Because I don't care what it is."

"It's Seijuro Hiko the 13th. But before I took that name, I was Kakunoshin Niitsu."

The flat eyes narrowed sharply, then widened. "Shit. I don't believe it. Little Kakunoshin?"

"Yes."

Juro's face split in a wide grin, although unlike Hiko's, his sword didn't waver at all. "I'll be damned. You grew, boy!"

Hiko's lips twitched. "A little."

"So the old man took you on as an apprentice, huh? I figured he killed you. But instead you killed him. Pretty good. I would say you learned your lessons from me well, but I have a feeling that's not the whole story. If it were, you wouldn't be here cutting my men apart. Unless, of course, you want that loot for yourself."

"No, I don't. I have no use for it."

"Don't tell me you're going around protecting the innocent. I thought I taught you better than that, but then, I had a feeling you only listened to me with half an ear. You were the stubbornest kid I ever met. So – what are you going to do now? Kill another of your masters?"

"I don't want to." He wasn't sure he could. Juro was as evil as anyone he'd ever faced, but Juro had also saved his life, not once but several times. He wouldn't be standing here now, if not for this man. Knowing that he wouldn't have been an orphan who needed saving if not for this man didn't help. Juro had shown him justice. A rough and cruel justice, but justice all the same. In a way, he'd treated Hiko like a son, giving him what he thought a boy would need to survive in the world.

His answer made Juro sneer. "You always were soft inside. You'll have to, or I'll kill you."

Hiko let the tip of his sword drop to the ground. "Will you? I doubt it. But tell me, how did you survive my master's attack? We were both sure you were dead." True, they'd never seen his body. When they'd arrived at the farm, the villagers, drawn by the smoke, had already begun burying the bodies. But having seen the fight, until today he'd never doubted Juro was in that mass grave.

Juro said, "I'm tough, and I'm smart. I knew he was more than my match, so the third time he came after me, I focused, not on beating him, but in parrying him well enough to stay alive. Even then, it was almost not enough. If the old man hadn't been so preoccupied with helping the girl, he might have noticed something. And if Takuji and Yakumo hadn't come back and helped me, I would have bled to death anyway. As you've probably noticed, the wounds still slow me down a bit. But I lived."

Hiko hadn't thought about Takuji and Yakumo once in more than ten years. "Where are they now, those two?"

"Yakumo died of pneumonia two years after you left. Takuji is right over there," with a gesture toward the corpses scattered behind Hiko. "I always told him you'd kill him, but I thought after you disappeared that I was wrong. Guess not."

"And Akahana?"

Juro laughed. "That woman was unforgettable, wasn't she? She's dead, too. Childbirth. Ironic, huh? No, not mine. She'd already moved on to someone better by that time. Richer, anyway. She was never satisfied," he grumbled. "But she'd have been better off keeping you, wouldn't she? Saved us all a lot of grief." His sword had not wavered a fraction of an inch, and now his eyes narrowed again. "Enough reminiscing. I never did have much use for sentiment. I will say, though, I never expected you to grow up like this. I never expected you to grow up at all. I thought the old man killed you, like I said." He chuckled. "I always knew you wouldn't starve to death, though, not with the skills I taught you. But you've gone me one better. You look like you haven't missed a meal since the day you left me. Who would have thought skinny little Kakunoshin would turn out like you have?" He took a defensive stance. "Very well. You have another name now, and you've probably grown beyond any gratitude you might have felt toward me. So we'll have a fight."

But Hiko didn't lift his own sword. Listening to Juro's voice, he had fallen back in time, recalling days that had been shut out of his mind since the first few months of his apprenticeship. He remembered being hungry enough to eat a wooden table leg, and this man casually flicking him a rice ball, keeping him alive another day until he learned to steal his food. He remembered being dragged out from a hiding place by an angry Shun, and Shun's knife-wielding hand being caught in an iron grip by this man before him, saving his life yet again. He remembered weapons and training given to him for no other reason than to teach him to survive in the world as Juro saw it. He now knew that world to be cruelly narrow, but within its limits, Juro had done well by him. "I told you, I don't want to fight with you."

"You figure you owe me, is that it?"

Hiko nodded.

"You do, of course. Let me go, then."

"I can't do that."

"How about if I promise to retire and live a life of peace after this? Hell, I'm old enough, it's about time."

"I wouldn't believe you."

The eyes narrowed again, this time in amusement. "You were never stupid, I'll give you that. Come on, we can't stand here until I drop dead of old age."

Hiko again made him the offer he had never before made any man. "Surrender, and I'll turn you over to the authorities. I'll ask them to spare you."

"Don't be an ass. They'd agree with you to your face, and the minute your back was turned, I'd be on the executioner's block. If we even got that far. More than likely, the first village we pass through, there are a bunch of people who would gladly stone me to death or tear me apart."

"You're the moth who can no longer fly now, aren't you? And the ants are waiting for you."

"That's right. But they'll just have to go hungry. I have no intention of falling into their clutches, that swarm of cowards. No authorities, Kakunoshin. That's too easy. Fight me, or let me go."

"You mean kill you or let you go."

"You always were so damned cocky."

"It's still the truth. However much you might want to deny it, Juro, you don't have a chance against me. You're more than fifty years old now. My Master left you with your abilities cut in two, I can tell by the way you moved. And I'm a Master of the Hiten Mitsurugi style. I don't have to kill you, you know. I can take you alive."

"But you won't."

"Why won't I?"

Juro's lips curved. "Maybe you would. Maybe you forgot all about your family. You were very young. Do you want me to remind you? Your father offered me water, thinking I was just a traveler passing by. Nice man. Kept a good farm, too. No loot, but you kept us fed for a while."

Hiko had a reason for keeping that particular memory hidden away. Gratitude was a simple emotion, easy to control. But the emotion that flooded him now, as Juro's words brought back the slaughter of his family, was another story. A door opened in his mind, and all the hatred that he hadn't dare feel when he was five years old suddenly emerged. He felt his face heat with the effort to contain it.

Juro saw, and smiled. "Your sister sure was a pretty little thing," he said. "Soft and tender. So was your mother – for a woman her age."

He knew what Juro was doing, but the knowledge didn't help. It was working. He could almost hear Chieko's screams of pain again and feel his five-year-old's helpless rage, and his arm was shaking with his effort not to bring his sword up. He no longer knew what he wanted to do. Killing Juro now, with his own hands, or turning him over to the authorities to be killed by villagers or by an axe were equally enticing. And equally wrong. _What's wrong with me? Why do I hesitate? This is an evil man. I've killed a hundred like him. Yes, he saved my life, but he more than made up for that by what he did to my family._ Yet he knew if he struck Juro down as he felt now, he would be stained by something as ugly as anything Juro ever dealt. He couldn't move. _Why?_

The two of them were still facing each other, taut, Juro in full ready stance, Hiko just out of his reach, sword lowered. Juro was watching the effects of his words on the other man, knowing what he'd done and welcoming it, expecting it to take the edge from his opponent and allow him to escape. Hiko was blank-eyed, torn by memories, and Juro prepared to move while he was still off guard.

A breeze stirred the ground, blowing a few stray leaves past them. Hiko heard his Master then, but not with his ears. _Baka. You're a Hiten Mitsurugi Master now. You left behind your past when you came to me, and you promised to act according to the Hiten Mitsurugi principles. Nothing more, and nothing less._

And as a Master, he had only one choice here. It was not personal, not revenge. It was duty.

Juro lunged, seeing just a split second too late that Hiko's eyes had lifted and cleared. Hiko brought his sword up to parry, seeing no fear in the other man's eyes, and no mercy, either. _Good._ His parry swept up, and he bent one knee, bringing the sword down, back, and forward in a swift thrust. The blade slid between ribs, through lung and muscle, and split the spine before emerging between Juro's shoulders. He yanked it out as Juro fell.

The older man's expression was one of surprised resignation. He put a hand to his chest, held it up, looked at the blood on it, and grimaced. His eyes, already clouding, blinked up at Hiko. "Shit. It was worth a try, though."

His words bubbled with bloody froth. Hiko said, "I'll bury you, Juro."

"Make sure I'm dead first," Juro said with a red grin.

"My Master made few mistakes, but I learned from them, too," Hiko said, and struck twice, once through Juro's heart and once through his throat.

He backed away, closing his eyes. _One more kill. That's all, just one more kill._ But something was breaking inside him. All around him, the people from the caravan had come out and were watching him, silent, not understanding and afraid to approach him, but he ignored them, trying to keep whatever it was that was falling away. Holding it in his mind, he recognized it as the shards of his past. He could put them together now. They no longer frightened him. Their power, which he had not even recognized, was broken. He could look at the memories and once more make them a part of himself.

Instead, he let them fall. He was a Hiten Mitsurugi Master. The past had no hold over him. Not any more.

He opened his eyes and looked down, and saw just another corpse, another evil man who would never harm anyone again. He smiled and turned to the others. "Well done," he said to Kazuo's girl, and she grinned widely. "Go tell Kazuo. He's probably almost here by now."

"I am here," Kazuo said, coming up behind the girl and patting her on the head. He looked around. "What a mess."

Hiko looked at the merchants and their servants. Worse than useless. But they were still people, not prey. "One of you leave me a shovel. Then you can all go."

They faded, bowing deeply to him, thanking him but at the same time fearing him. Kazuo gave him a quizzical glance. "A shovel? You're going to bury them?"

"Just him."

"A worthy enemy, then?"

"No. But a teacher."

"You're kidding. What could a man like that have taught _you?"_

"Many things. How to survive – and how I didn't want to live."

Kazuo's brows jumped. "You are not sneaking off today without telling me that story, Seijuro Hiko."

Hiko had never thought he could tell the story to anyone. Even Hikaru knew almost nothing of it. But now... He shrugged. "You want the story, you help me dig the hole."

"You drive a hard bargain, you bastard."

"Of course I do. I'm a Hiten Mitsurugi Master."


End file.
